


How Weasel Learned to Hate the Friends-Zone

by SandyQuinn



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-14
Updated: 2011-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:31:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandyQuinn/pseuds/SandyQuinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weasel is way too old for experimenting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Weasel Learned to Hate the Friends-Zone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nighteyes (AdderTwist)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdderTwist/gifts).



> I'm a Finn. We BREATHE melancholy.

Sometimes Weasel thinks that he might even dare to risk the possible beating and just kiss Wade.

Might.

Weasel is Weasel, however, and despite the innuendo, despite the friendly arm thrown over his shoulder, despite the hints that he thinks he spots (but he might just be crushing desperately, and horny as hell) he doesn’t make a move. He keeps it cool. Buddy-level.

Yes. Indeed.

Which is why he’s not sure how he’s in this situation now.

He stares down at Wade, asleep, or more accurately, passed out, on his floor, between the TV and the couch, and repeats “buddies” in his head, desperately. Not even best buddies anymore, he thinks, not with Cable around. He never really liked that guy very much.

Weasel is a coward. This is a fact he acknowledges, and he could never risk it, not just because he’s afraid of a punishment, but also because he doesn’t want to lose his friendship with Wade. But now…

Now would be the time, if he’d ever want to find out what it’s like, how it feels, whether the lust and painful affection and fondness he feels are real or just some weird form of very morbid curiosity. Wade is out cold. The path is safe. Of course, it’s not very honorable, but it would keep the peace.

Paranoid, Weasel prods the merc with the mouth lightly with his foot. Wade let’s out a protesting sound, mumbles something about cucumbers and rolls on his back. He’s wearing his costume, but lacking the mask, relaxed about it lately.

Weasel tilts his head, staring at the scarred face quietly. Wade is not handsome, but neither is Weasel, and he doesn’t care about the fact very much. Wade is also cheerfully rough, violent at times, and Weasel has long ago concluded that the crazy babbling creates some sort of hypnosis that gets Weasel to stick around EVEN when Wade uses him for target practice.

Or something.

Weasel wonders whether he feels this way simply because Wade is the closest person in his life, or whether Wade is the closest person his life because he feels this way.

He crouches down on the floor, touching Wade’s shoulder lightly as if trying to wake him up, and when Wade doesn’t lash out, he leans in, mouth brushing Wade’s lightly, hastily, heart beating painfully in his chest. His breath catches.

Weasel pulls back, staring at Wade, who shifts and mumbles something about finger-puppets and Oprah in his sleep, and something jolts, painfully, in Weasel’s chest. It’s not fear.

Well. Fuck.


End file.
